Washed Clean
by whitherthen
Summary: Buffy's thoughts turn to Spike one evening after work.


Striped uniform in a pile on the floor. Mirror already foggy; she had barely gotten her hair wet. Showering should have gone faster, minus all the hair. For the past two weeks she had been standing under the water until it ran cold. Shivering; snapping back to reality when Willow or Dawn banged on the door. They were still afraid of her in that shifty, nervous way. She was glad they paid attention. Hypothermia could be a very bad thing. They were particularly disturbed by the showers. Exchanged looks when she came home from work. Maybe that's what got them speaking again. Buffy's-fucking-insane glances. She wished they got it. Without her having to explain it. Not that she would. Or could. It just made sense on a gut-level. That for years she had craved normality, but now, being ordinary was killing her.

Wash it all away. Perfect sense. Why couldn't they see it? He saw it. He saw her. Right into her. He wouldn't play the game, abide by the rules like everyone else did. Ignore her peculiarities and space-outs. Smile and nod when she said she was fine. That word didn't exist when she was around him. Most words were pointless. She had to fuck him to realize that. Weeks of talk meant nothing. Quiet confessions in the cemetery: fitful dreams, lost time, overall detachment, raging death wish. Nothing phased him. Maybe that's why she had taken him with such violence that first time, to shake him up, to shock him, to shatter everything he thought he knew about her.

And now this job, this job, this fucking job. Right back where she started. Living dead girl. Quickies in the alley just to stay awake. But he indulged her. Showed up every night, didn't bother talking. He barely looked at her, and she was glad. Too much pain in his eyes. She wondered how long he would put up with this, how far she could push him until he just stopped showing up. Because this couldn't go on, even she knew that. But there was nothing left to give, she was all used up: work, patrol, mother to Dawn, support-o-gal for Willow. She wished things with Spike could go back to how they used to be; faithful confidante, not mindless fucking. And having both would mean something, make things too real. It was real enough to have Spike's head between her thighs-

_Knock, knock._ "Buffy?" Right on cue. The chill from the water was starting to set in. She didn't reply, just shut off the faucet, knowing that was the needed answer. Spider sense tingling - Willow lingered for a few moments on the other side of the door. What the hell did she want? Buffy wondered what it would be like if Spike were in here with her. If she were to jump up on the counter and open wide, heels digging into the backs of his thighs, head banging into the mirror while he fucked her dizzy: would Willow still linger at the door then? Would she bother knocking at all? Could she live in the same house with a slayer who fucked a soulless vampire?

Buffy sighed and pulled on her robe. She opened the door, nonplussed at seeing Willow on the other side. Apply fake facial expressions in 3, 2, 1… "Yeah, Will?"

"I just thought maybe you'd want to skip patrol tonight and, you know, hang out?"

"You know I can't skip patrol. But thanks." Buffy side-stepped her friend, walked to her room, closed the door behind herself and leaned against it. She squeezed her eyes shut, mind racing: she could give a shit about patrol, but if she went they wouldn't even question her proclivity to a certain cemetery, a certain crypt; a certain vampire. Covering her face with her hands, Buffy shook her head. Did every fucking thought have to turn to him? Buffy removed her hands, opened her eyes, and took in the vampire standing a short distance away.

"Open window not an invitation." She whispered angrily.

"Don't need one, luv. But if you want me to go…" No answer. He took advantage of the dead air, advancing until he was inches away. "Thought we could use a change of scenery." Right hand reaching down, down, locking the door. And she knew there was no use pretending. He could hear the quickening of her breath and heartbeat, feel the heat coming off her in waves as her skin flushed. But the fire in her gut, that low-down tingle, she owned that. Jesus. He hadn't even touched her yet.

"Willow… And Dawn will be home soon…" she protested weakly.

Adept fingers hooking around the sash of her robe, untying it painfully slow. She was wet already, wondering if he could make her come like this, by proximity and promise alone. It was entirely possible. Spike leaned in even closer, lips brushing her ear. "Afraid you can't keep quiet?"

It was the whispered challenge that did it, smashed through her defenses, forcing her lips against his, barely registering the sound of her robe hitting the floor as a cold hand worked its way between her legs. Her knees buckled and she wrapped her arms around his neck to keep from falling. All thought of consequence faded away as her mind was washed deliciously clean.


End file.
